((Alrighty then. It's pretty simple really. You have the Kelgan Confederacy on one side, all propaganda and power-hungry. Then you have the Arkarian Militia. Survivalist from the desolate planet of Arkaria, nuked into oblivion by the Kelgans after a revolt. Those that had stolen ships and gotten off planet before the Armageddon of missles struck survived. Shame for the other countless millions still left. The Militia now fights to overthrow the powers that be, and with them, all sense of leadership the Confederacy has. From there, the Arkarian leader, Articus Rayn plans on starting his own republic. You can be anyone you'd like, other that those of power (I.E. Articus, the Head families of the Confederacy, those of similar power, etc.) The soldiers of the Confeds are convicts brainwashed into resocialization and drugged up with stim-packs to make them follow orders. There are also Phantoms for the Kelgan. Basically Special Forces of the Confeds and all around cold blooded bad asses. Arkarians have refugees turned soldiers with stolen military goods. When you send me the pm title it Unicorns. The militia can easily hold thier own against the Kelgan and tend to use terrorism and guerilla warfare as a way to fight. Any further questions ask me. Rules are as follows: Many will die for the cause, recruit accordingly. Ask me before you do something drastic. No God moding or powerplaying. I don't really have a thing against cybering, internet is a free place, although a little creepy, do whatever floats your boat. This rp will be R rated so youngens close your eyes. Rules maybe added.))

Name:Age:Class:(Phantom, Soldier, Pilot, Rebel(insert class here, i.e. Rebel Soldier), Spy)Weapons:(Listed below are the common ones, I suppose you can create your own, just pm me with the attributes and all so I can give it the yay or nay)Armor: (Phantoms wear Apocolypse armor, which is light, manuverable, and can take standard weapon fire for a short period of time due to a shield. Note: The shield is basically a shield against ballistics, small arm fire and minimal standard weaponry fire. Kelgan troops wear C-132 Combat armor.((Think Gears of Wars and slim it down just a tad)) Gives enough defence against small arm fire and shrapnell, but gauss spikes (Fired from standard issue Gauss Rifles) make short work of anyone wearing it. Militia troops wear older models of C-132 armor, bulkier and noisier. Some prefer not to wear any armor at all. Militia infiltrators have cloaking devices stolen from Phantoms )- Physical Attributes -Height:Weight:Eye Color:Hair Color:Distinguishing marks:Background:

Before the war, things were different. Hell, back then, we were just making our daily living, doing our jobs, drawing our paychecks, and stabbing our fellow men and women in the back. We had no idea how bad things would get. We were fat and happy like maggots on a dead animal. There was enough sporadic violence-rebellions and revolutions and balky colonial governments-to keep the military going, but not enough to really threaten the lifestyles we had grown accustomed to. We were, in retrospect, fat and sassy.And if a real war broke out, well, it was the military's worry. The marines' worry. Not ours.

"Get down the line!" A voice yelled. Whom it belonged was hard to tell, with the explosions in the night sky leaving soldiers blind.

Were it not for the mangled corpse falling flat infront of him, upper torso violently removed by shrapnel, Merrik Klains, soldier for the Kelgan Confederacy, would have sat right in his hole till the battle was over and the enemy had won. Scared, alone and drugged up with stimpacks, the soldier grabbed his rifle and pulled himself from the hole. Gauss spikes whizzed over head. Around him, men and women cried out, death slowly consuming them. Soon they would be silenced, whether it be the cold embrace of death, or the hard hit of stimulants hitting thier bloodstreams. Sprinting, Merrik's own slugthrower pulled to his chest, the last of the stimpacks did thier job. Fear no longer found itself in the pages of his mind. Emotions vanished as if stars of a magic trick. The only thing left were his orders. Get down the line, kill all enemies.

As his destination approached, a pile of rubble and corpses along with a machinegun emplacement, Merrik dove. Nano-reinforced steel collided with red-brown dirt and slid. Stopping short of the gun, the marine crawled, explosions everywhere followed by screams of pain. Medic seemed to be the word of the day. There was a prick in the back of his neck as a needle shot him up with another stimulant pack. With that last stimulant, killing became as easy as breathing for the young vetran. Merrik pulled himself up, his practiced hands already racking a bullet into the chamber of the MG-782. The hydraulic system in the gun whinned loudly before there came a spray of bullets.

The carnage of war is not something to take lightly. Throughout the course of history, both the old times and now, grotesque things have always happened. One such thing happened when Merrik J. Klains lined up the first man before the onslaught of bullets came forth. Words cannot trully describe the violence that happened to the poor bastard caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Enemy Arkarian soldiers all on the front lines stopped mid-stride to look at the lump of remains that layed were thier comrade once stood. And before even the next step was taken by any man, ally or enemy, a massacre was on the hands of Merrik Klains. Taking an old quote 'They were dead before thier bodies hit the floor.' Dozens dropped left and right. He heard cheers coming behind him as his allies charged forward. Where it not for the stray bullet of a private still learning how to conrol his weapon, Merrik's killing would have been the turning point of the battle.

Armor from his right leg ripped away with ease as the high caliber spike ran through. Pain racked, Merrik's body. The soldier felt none of it, however, so drugged up on stim-packs it was suprising the man had not died of OD, something that contributed to many field deaths. As his leg gave out, and Merrik toppled backwards, his bulky suit of armor hissed, sealing off the wounded area and applying a tournacet(sp*) to the leg. Medical stimulants now began to shoot through the wounded marine's body and darkness was hurridly creeping in. Realisation of the wound struck him, and one word escaped his lips before unconciousness took hold.

Captain Xanthius Krieger stood on the bridge of his war ship, the Omen. It was rather large for a destroyer class ship, state of the art too. It was long, stream lined and jet black giving it the appearance of an elongated, obsidian arrow head. It was covered in turrets and was fitted with a main cannon, an electromagnetic gamma cannon to be precise, that could rip through the hull of a freighter in one blast. He rather liked the ship, it had been a gift from the confederate big wigs upon his promtion to captain. When they asked him what he wanted to call the vessel Xanthius responded that he wanted the ship to signal the doom of the confederacy's enemies. The "Omen" was deemed an appropriate name.

He and his crew were being sent to investigate the possible where abouts of a rebel base. In truth they were about to enter into a battle field where the confederate army had engaged the rebels on the planet of Zadius Prime. A terrible, musky planet if Xanthius's memory served. They were to assist in the battle where necessary to ensure victory and break into the rebel mainframe before it could be wiped clean. From there they could find the other enemy strongholds and finally end this war. The trick was getting the info with out the rebels knowing that they had it. If they knew their bases were compromised they'd just relocate, and that would defeat the purpose of his task.

He'd been told it was a dangerous mission, that he would not likely survive. He'd had those kind of missions before, always to be dissapointed by their simplicity.

"Suit stopped mos' tha bleedin'," Another grunted, it's words soaked with a small town twang. "Ain't no reason to jus' leave him here. Give him a jump start, Doc."

There was silence again for a brief moment, then fire coursed through Merrik's body. Pain was an understatement as a medic injected the wounded soldier with adrenaline. The lord said let there be light. And there was.

Eyes snapping open, Merrik's first reflex was to sit up, grab his rifle and, well, do what he was trained to do. That would have happened too if it hadn't been for his suit, all 300lbs of it, refusing to move.

"Give me a second, Klains." The first voice spoke up again. "I locked your suit up to keep you from convulsing."

Merrik stared into the night sky, bombshells and flares still igniting turning night to day. Glancing down into the bottom of his visor, he could see three lights blinking red. The medic fidgeted with something in the back of Merrik's suit, and the slow passing of time soon became an annoyance.

His suit hummed quietly as the internal computer came to life, stiff joints loosened and a Heads-Up-Display popped up on his visor. Grabbing for his gun, which thankfully rested nearby, Merrik pulled himself up and finally got his chance to survey the battlefield.

"Staff Sargent Fredricks," An artillery shell exploded near by, both of the soldiers cringed a little. As the ringing faded, the medic continued. "Fredricks patched your suit. He moved up the line."

Merrik looked down at his leg, confirming what the medic said. A grey, unpainted piece of steel was welded into place where the gapping hole was before. Patting the medic on the shoulder, a silent thanks, the soldier looked towards the frontlines, and headed off that way.

'Easy, this is Baseplate. Looks like the Brass is bringing in a phantom. Captain Krieger. Hope you boys like fireworks, he's bringing the Omen with him.'

The Comms chatter was alive, now more than ever with the momentum shifting after Merrik's stunt. An opening for a Harbinger Battle Suit to be dropped, breathing room finally. Looking to off to his left as he headed up the line, a vertibird touched down, kicking up dust all around obscuring its cargo.

"Harbinger to Easy Company. I hear you boys are looking for some bigger guns. Hope you wont mind us stealin' some glory. I hear the girls love them a war hero."

The Vertibird released its hold on its cargo, taking off almost as quick as it has touched down. Gears whinned as 20 tons of steel stepped out onto the battlefield. 25 feet tall, body width of roughly 14 feet, the mechanicle death dealer walked up right on two legs, each 15 feet. It's body was squared, yet had curves in the armor specifically for deflecting artillery rounds and rockets. A haze of blue surrounded the Harbinger, and as the first bullet struck, the area consumed by the haze lit up. A shield. For shoulders the machine had multi-rpgs, housed in a square box of steel similar to that used on attack helicopters. Ontop of the head swiveled a turret, loaded and ready with hot plasma rounds. The arms, each with a span of 12 feet, lowered and aimed, instead of hands for this goliath, there were chain guns, the bullets fed from an internal feeder to prevent jamming and sabatoge. Inside, a team of two highly skilled engineers, Michael and Charlie, worked the contraption as if it were an extent of thier own body, one controled legs and arms, the other the upper turret and shoulder rockets.

"So who dies first?" Mic chuckled into the radio, over his head he wore a strange visor, when his head turned, so did the turret.

The first to die, unfortunate souls, was a group of rebels stupid enough to thing an emplaced machine gun would defeat this metal giant. With surgical precision, Mic turned the turret, and with the squeeze of a joystick trigger, took out the small squad. Plasma consumed the emplacement weapon, the gun itself melting into mush along with anyone near it. Charlie finished it up, the upper body of the machine whirling around to face the emplacement, the chainguns started up, a high pitched whine as the turrets revolved. And then, bullets. Lots of bullets. 50 caliber, Full metal jacketed, high explosive rounds flew by the dozens. The first struck the sandbag bunker, exploded, and left a hole the size of a man's head in one of the sandbags. Soon 100 more struck, and the once safe haven of a bunker was turned to rubble. Any remaining signs of life were eliminated as an rpg flew from a shoulder canister.

"Another one bites the dust. Alpha-Foxtrot. Requesting new target. Over."

As the Harbinger went about its work, explosive light barely contained by the fog like dust as it fired its guns, Merrik continued his movement up the lines, finally reaching a large trench-like encampment that was the front lines.Jumping down into the trench, he made his way to the main alcove like bunker made into the trench wall. There inside stood a group of men huddled around a table.

"Mitchell, Shantaclair, O'Leery," Captain Brocklaw, the man in the middle, looked up from his map towards the new guest. "Nice of you to finally get here Klains."

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